Ten Days with the Highlander (Love Abroad)

by Manning, Hayson

  She’d have to find another hotel. Somewhere local. Not being in contact with the outside world wasn’t tenable. “Anywhere else to say around here?”

  “No. Looks like you’re stuck with me for ten days.”

  Chapter Two

  Callum MacGregor fought a chuckle at the frustration written on Georgia Paxton’s face. Even frustrated, she was attractive. He’d have to be in a coma to not notice her gleaming whiskey-colored hair that framed her sun-kissed face. Or her light-green eyes surrounded by thick, inky lashes. Or her curvy body. The scent of coconut and mango surrounded her.

  She was a burst of California sunshine on a moody Scottish day.

  “There is a landline if you need it.”

  Puzzlement tightened her delicate features. “A what?”

  Hands full of her bags, as they were, he indicated with his head the traditional telephone with its polished brass dial, thick white base, and coiled wires in a rubber coating. He’d inherited it with the hotel and loved it.

  Her eyes widened. “That works? I thought it was a decoration.”

  “A bit scratchy but, yeah, it works.”

  She stared doubtfully at the phone. “It will help when I need to get ahold of my boss, I guess. Her travel schedule is worse than mine, but I still need to send through updated plans. Attachments.” She then riffled through a purse that could hold a small nation. “Do you want my credit card?”

  “Are you planning on skipping out before ten days is up?”

  “No.” Her eyes snapped to his. Gorgeous, assessing eyes. “Of course not.”

  “Then we’re good. Your word is enough. We’ll fix it up at the end.”

  Trust meant a lot around here and a lot to him. She’d trusted a total stranger getting into her car and helping her. He’d heard Leonard on the horn of his tractor from all the way down at the pub. The impatient farmer shifted paddocks late afternoon every day, herding his cows via the road to neighboring fields. Callum had wandered outside, and sure enough there was his American guest, her car sticking out like dog bollocks.

  “Why don’t you keep Kitty company while I light the fire in your room?”

  “A fire?” The word faded to a whisper.

  “Yeah. Guests love it.” Enough guests stayed to keep him in the lifestyle he loved. He picked up her heavy bags and again felt the pull in his shoulders. The woman came with a lot of baggage. Would that be figurative as well? “Are you sure you’re only staying for ten days?”

  “My whole life is in those two bags,” she answered in a soft, American drawl. “I’ll be moving somewhere new in ten days.”

  “Corporate America,” he murmured.

  “Exactly.” Again, the beautiful smile lit her eyes. “I love it.”

  Callum ignored the clutch in his stomach. He’d lived her life, moving from one project to the next, not knowing what city he was in, and he hated it. It was a life he’d left behind and would never return to. He’d found his place, here with family and friends in his charming, old-fashioned hometown.

  Her stomach rumbled loudly, and her face pinked.

  “Tonight is Pie and Pint night at the pub, if you’re hungry.”

  “I’ve never had a pint.” Her face brightened. “What sort of pie?”

  “Pork, I think. It changes weekly. People come from miles for Ainsley’s pies.”

  Alistair’s favorite.

  Pain sliced sharp between his ribs. It had been over two years, but the pain of losing his best friend, friends since they were five years old, was still a scab that at unexpected times ripped to form more scar tissue.

  Alistair’s widow, Ainsley, and Callum got through some of the bad days together, though he caught her crushed face at times when she thought no one was looking. Tonight, he’d be on double duty since it was pork pie night. Alistair claimed she’d slain his heart with her brand of pies.

  He walked toward a set of stairs that led to the guest quarters, but stopped at Georgia’s shout and looked back.

  “Wait, um, let me tip you.” She riffled through her bag again, spears of copper and bronze dancing in her hair.

  He rocked back in surprise. “No tipping,” he said. “You’ll offend people.”

  Leaving her wide-eyed, he walked up the flight of stairs to room number three. The corner room, the largest and coziest of the four guest rooms, looked out over green fields dotted with Highland cows.

  Callum smiled. She’d appreciate the cows.

  He was curious as to why she was here. The only people who ventured into the town were either lost or had researched the destination and wanted to explore the folklore of the countryside, which the people here held close to their hearts. As did he. She didn’t seem the usual type, but then again, he didn’t have a crystal ball when it came to reading people, especially women.

  A short time and a little work later, fire crackled in the corner. He pulled a metal screen around the fire and looked around the room, wondering how a woman like Georgia would see it. The Tiffany-replica lamp on the old mahogany desk cast a milky glow over the polished wood. A bed with a thick white quilt and a ridiculous number of colored pillows took up much of the space. Maud, who helped his mum and cleaned the hotel, said it made the room pop, as did the “snuggly” throw on the back of every chair and bed in the place. The room felt cozy. Lived in. Would his new guest agree?

  After making sure the firewood was well stocked, he headed back downstairs.

  Georgia sat in a chair she’d pulled closer to the crackling logs, a computer in her lap, her head down, her fingers flying across the keyboard, and one of Maud’s throws draped across her legs.

  He glanced at his watch. “I’m off to the pub. The Rose and Thistle is straight down the road. You can’t miss it if you want a meal.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Her hair spilled over one side of her face, giving her an angelic look. “I’ll be down as soon as I’ve finished.”

  “Always in work mode?”

  She looked up, a smile on her face. “Always.”

  Walking, talking corporate America.

  “Help yourself to anything here.” He pulled on his jacket for the short walk. He’d left his staff to open up when he’d seen Georgia holding up traffic, but as the owner, he liked to be there to greet everyone.

  “Thanks.” She frowned. “Do I flick the lock on the door or something?”

  He tugged a beanie onto his head. The walk home later would be icy. “No one locks doors around here. Just pull it tight. There’s a sign on the door if I’m not here. They know to find me down at the pub.”

  Her jaw dropped. “But what about security? The ledger with people’s details in it. What about Hello Kitty? How will she get out?”

  He grinned. “There hasn’t been a crime here in years, the ledger is in a locked drawer, and Kitty belongs to everyone. She arrived one day and never left. She shares her time with whomever she wants. Everyone leaves a window open for her, including the one in my kitchen. She knows where it is.”

  Frown lines marred her smooth forehead. “Are your guests concerned by unlocked doors?”

  “That’s why you have a key—to lock your room’s door if you feel the need.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t worry, we’re the only two here, and I don’t sleepwalk.”

  She bit her bottom lip and went back to typing furiously, but he thought he caught a blush on her cheeks.

  “Good crowd for a Monday.” Ainsley walked past, carrying two plates.

  Callum smiled and warmth spooled through him. Only two hours into the night, and the place was full. People from all over the county sat at tables, talking amongst themselves. The absolute familiarity and rightness of the atmosphere never failed to convince him that coming back here, buying the pub and hotel and renovating them, had been the best decision of his life. Now, families from miles around came for Ainsley’s cooking and a refuge from their world. That the place was a success was secondary.

  Everyone knew not to sit where brothers Jock and Du
gal had sat for the past hundred or so years, bickering, playing cards, and complaining about the weather. Tired mothers had offloaded testy toddlers and were chatting at tables, worry lines dissolved from their foreheads. Fire danced in a massive open fireplace surrounded by a wrought-iron screen. Ainsley delivered plates of pork pies and garlic potato mash to tables. A game of darts was being played, with the thwack of the darts hitting targets or not. Groups of farmers stood around tables, quietly drinking their pints, saying nothing but understanding the silent conversation.

  Callum pulled a pint glass filled with Black Douglas Ale with a practiced hand. Bartending while at Cambridge University was now a useful skill. He pushed the pint across the old polished wooden bar toward Leonard, who tipped his hat. “On the tab.”

  The old farmer nodded in unspoken agreement.

  Leonard and his herd were on hard times. The old man had been coming here since Callum was fourteen, working at the pub to “build character, work his ass off, and show respect,” as his father had drummed into him from the day he was born. Callum had a lot of respect for Leonard, who’d always taken the time to talk while a then-teen Callum washed glasses out back.

  He would never let Leonard pay the tab.

  A flash of long, shiny dark hair caught Callum’s eye. Georgia moved through the crowd, stopping at tables and chatting.

  Finally. They’d be running out of Ainsley’s pies soon, and he had an unexpected and overwhelming urge to see that she had something to eat.

  What was that about?

  Irritated with himself, Callum got back to keeping busy, but he managed to keep an eye on his hotel guest as she walked the room. She’d changed into a purple jumper that followed the line of the curve of her hip to the denim that hugged her legs. Dark, knee-high riding boots with a sexy heel completed a very tasty-looking package.

  Every male head turned as she passed, damn it.

  He shook his head. The woman clearly had a knack for engaging people. Everywhere she went, excited chatter and laughter rose up over the usual hum of voices.

  “That’s your lassie?” Leonard indicated Georgia. “The one who cannae park?”

  “That’s her.” Callum pulled another pint of ale, angling the glass to get the perfect head. Not that Georgia was his, but no sense in correcting the man.

  Georgia made her way over to the bar and smiled. “I’d like a pie and a pint, please.”

  His cock stirred. Her American drawl really did a number on him. Or maybe it was just her. He dug a hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? Lusting after a guest was new to him. Even a beautiful guest he could imagine staring up at him from under his body.

  Yeah, not going there.

  She scanned the blackboard menu above the bar, showcasing the different days and themes. “Might have a sandwich on Callum’s Haggis and Hair of the Dog night, but excellent idea having different themes on different nights,” she said, grinning. “Do you have Mojito and Meatloaf Monday?”

  “Afraid not. Never have been a fan of meatloaf.”

  She blinked. “Wait. Is this your pub?”

  Pride swept through him. “It was a rundown heap when I purchased it. The renovation took longer than I thought, but it brought the community back together. It’s the only place around here where people can gather except for the drafty town hall.”

  “It gets better and better,” she said cryptically.

  Ainsley stopped and introduced herself to Georgia. “I don’t know. Mojito and Meatloaf sounds awesome to me, Sofa.” She gave him a small smile then moved toward the kitchen.

  Georgia’s eyes widened. “Sofa?”

  He grinned. “Apparently I’m that laid back.”

  Pink streaked her cheeks. She must have thought his nickname meant something else that happened on sofas.

  He could handle her thinking of him on a sofa. Preferably with her on it, too, her bedroom eyes roaming over his body before dropping to his lips.

  Georgia cleared her throat. “My sister Indiana calls me ‘Twitchy’ because I can’t keep still.”

  “Indiana and Georgia?”

  “Yeah, my parents never stay in one place very long. Indiana and Georgia were the states we were born in.” She grinned. “Not that I have anything against Wisconsin or Arkansas, but I’m glad I didn’t have to try to pull off either of those. And I’m really glad we weren’t named after cities. Imagine if we were born in Coupon, Chicken, or Fertile?”

  He laughed. “You’re serious, those are cities?”

  She put her hand over her heart. “Coupon, Pennsylvania. Chicken, Alaska—which I bet has a sign ‘I got laid in Chicken, Alaska’—and Fertile, Iowa.”

  He chuckled. Nope, she was definitely a Georgia.

  Grabbing a glass, he asked, “Do you have plans for the ten days you’re here?”

  “I do. I’ll tell you about them soon.” Her gaze drifted over the blackboard menu again, and her mouth twitched. “Should I be looking forward to Callum’s Spotted Dick and Stout night?”

  Callum finished pouring her a pint and pushed it toward her. “It’s a real hit with the ladies. I’ve been told it’s the highlight of their week.”

  Georgia choked on her beer. “Really?”

  He grinned. “Aye. If you want, I’ll give you a wee look. A preview.”

  She laughed and, damn, if that didn’t pull a smile to his lips. “And ruin the surprise? Absolutely not. I’ll wait with bated breath until Friday.”

  She gave him a saucy grin and weaved her way back toward a group of women. He really shouldn’t notice the way her hips swayed, but damn him, he did. And so did another part of his body.

  He mentally clocked himself. Yeah, it had been a while, but still.

  He caught sight of a white cross against a blue background of the Scottish flag and sighed. He scanned the crowded area to see if anybody needed saving from Kathleen, home from university and enthusiastic about her new-found religion—politics. Last week, he’d had to rescue a bewildered Welsh family passing through for lunch from her opinion on Brexit and its effect on the Scottish economy.

  Protectiveness pooled in Callum. His pub was a refuge against the growing commercialism of neighboring towns that were being pressured to sell their land to make way for affordable housing. Not that he had anything against modernization—being an architect, he’d helped design some of the most prestigious, soulless buildings around the world—but this town was unique. The folklore, the fabric of the people, the history, were being sucked out of cities and individuals. It had nearly been sucked out of him.

  Georgia made her way back to the bar. “This place is exactly how I pictured an English pub.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Easy now. Some people in these parts don’t like to be called English. Stick to ‘Scottish,’ and you’ll be fine.” At her enquiring glance, he held up his hands. “Strict rule. Don’t talk about politics, if Braveheart is fact or fiction, or what a man wears under his kilt.”

  She propped her elbows up on the bar, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Oh, but that’s why I’m here. Is it folklore that you wear nothing? Do you even have a kilt?”

  “Aye.”

  She laughed and bit into the pie Ainsley had placed before her. A dreamy expression crossed her beautiful face. “Oh, wow. This is incredible.”

  “You have the look of a thoroughly satisfied woman.”

  She smiled. “Every girl dreams of being totally and utterly satisfied. Me included.”

  He cleared his throat. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice, low and husky with a soft drawl, hit him right between the legs.

  Jesus. At this rate, he was going to need a new pair of jeans. He cleared his throat again and shifted gears back to neutral territory before the image of her being satisfied—by him—set up camp in his brain.

  “You’re going to love it here, kicking back for ten days.”

  “Oh, I’m not here to kick back.”

  He stilled. “Isn’t that why you’
re here, to get away from it all?”

  Her smile, slow to start, built into a flat-out grin. She leaned forward, and he breathed in coconut, sunshine, and vanilla. His mouth watered at the combination and he stared at her lips, willing her to come even closer. He was a man whose functioning parts were programmed through years of DNA to respond to soft, female body parts, and—

  “I’m here to convince you to partner with my vacation company LiveAbout. After a quick renovation, you’ll be raking in the money.”

  She sat back, pride shining from her eyes like a damn summer’s day on a Californian beach—golden sands, scented sunscreen, and perfect tan—and all thoughts of acquainting himself with those plump lips scattered. He glared at her. “You’re off your head.”

  Her smile faltered.

  “Your hotel. I’m here to convince you to partner with my—”

  Yeah, he’d heard what she said. He straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “You’ll be doing that over my dead body.”

  Chapter Three

  Wait. “What?”

  Maybe she’d heard him wrong, because who wouldn’t want to be raking in the money? The pub would even make cash with the extra guests, so in her book, it was a win-win situation.

  “You didn’t hear me wrong.” He glanced at a large old-fashioned clock over the bar. “We need to talk about this, but not here. We’ll be closing in an hour.”

  Georgia studied him, but the man of the hour turned away.

  Huh.

  She finished the beer, rattling the glass on the bar.

  If he thought she’d give up and slink away, he had another think coming.

  Sleep. That’s what she needed. She’d get a good night’s sleep and work out another angle, because she was not giving up. She hadn’t even delivered her full pitch yet. The heat of the fire, a full belly, and a pint of her second-favorite drink, ale—because nothing beat a frosty, minty mojito on a sweltering California night—had her dreaming of curling up with Hello Kitty and passing out until the alarm on her phone kicked into life at six a.m. Once she was recharged, she’d try again.